Damn Fine Tequila
by Clair de Lune - CdL
Summary: You can not not like a damn fine tequila. (Post-series, alternate canon, Michael/Sara/Lincoln)


A/N: Written for the following prompt: Michael/Sara (or Michael/Sara/Lincoln), hard liquor, perhaps some sort of sexual drinking game.  
Given her history of addiction, I have a no-alcohol-for-Sara rule (and I didn't want to write something darker where she would have started drinking again) so I had to cheat a bit work around this. As for Michael and Lincoln drinking around her in the first place... please bear with me?

Warning: No actual incest, but proceed with caution if Michael/Lincoln really bothers you.

* * *

At some point during the night, Lincoln ends up licking salt off Sara's collarbone.

It's so warm out there, all three of them are so hot and chipper, he so had one too many drinks that he can't figure out anymore whether this is actual salt or merely the taste of Sara's skin.

He freezes, catches Michael's eyes, and licks again, slowly, thoroughly.

o-o-o

When Lincoln tells her that "Mike doesn't like tequila," Sara blinks with the face of a woman who used to _looove_ tequila and regrets she can't (truthfully doesn't) love it anymore.

"Back in Fox River..." she muses out loud. "... you said something about limes?"

Everything else is here: the ocean, the back deck, the hammock, the freedom. She lines up shot glasses she won't drink herself and cuts limes she won't bite into, and glances questioningly at Michael.

"Beers and limes. Not tequila," he reminds her.

Lincoln smirks. Only Michael would argue about semantics and beverage of choice to celebrate. Neither of them is a heavy drinker — Lincoln isn't anymore and Michael never was — only a few beers every now and then and a glass of very good wine when Michael wants to play it fancy. But tonight is different; tonight, they celebrate. They fought together, they won together, they celebrate together. It's logical.

And they celebrate with a bottle of damn fine tequila.

You can not _not_ like a damn fine tequila. In order to prove him wrong, Sara licks the inside of her wrist, sprays salt on the skin, tucks a slice of lime between her teeth, and lifts an eyebrow at Lincoln. Who looks at her with a _you gotta be kidding me_ shake of his head but pours a glass for his brother nonetheless. She's not the kind of lady you say no to.

Especially, Lincoln imagines, when you're her husband and she's offering you the opportunity to lick her up.

He pushes out of his mind the couple of images this sentence planted and watches as Michael, scrunched nose, pink cheeks and resignation painted all over his face, sweeps his tongue over Sara's wrist, gulps down the tequila and bites the lime from her mouth.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Tancredi?" Michael asks. He slaps the shot glass on the table. His cheeks are a shade darker from the alcohol, the challenge, and the way Sara's looking at him.

"I'm trying to get you to unwind. I think you don't like tequila because you associate it with relaxing and loosening — and oh my God what would happen if you lost a tiny bit of control?"

Lincoln snorts. Spot on. Among a bunch of other things, _this_ is why he likes Sara. Not enough people not taking bullshit from his brother; his brother who whispers against Sara's cheek something sounding like _I lose control with you all the time_ , but Lincoln pretends he didn't hear that.

By his third shot, Michael's sprinkling salt on Sara's shoulder and admitting that tequila ain't so bad when offered this way. Sara laughs, her head tipped back and to the side to accommodate Michael, her hair brushing against Lincoln's arm. Michael licks and licks, and Lincoln is pretty sure there's some kissing and maybe biting going on too, and that Michael's tipsy. He wouldn't be bordering on exhibitionism if he wasn't tipsy; too uptight for that.

He wouldn't pour more salt on the curve of Sara's neck, look at Lincoln and defy him with a "I swear it tastes better that way. You try it!" if he wasn't tipsy.

Sara doesn't protest, just shrugs when Lincoln starts "I don't think..." and assures him it's okay. Unwinding, relaxing, loosening.

He licks the salt, knocks back the small glass and bites the lime from Sara's mouth, taking care not to touch her lips in the process.

At least, not the first time. 'Cause you know, a couple of glasses later, he's lost the little good sense he still had and a bit of his coordination, and small accidents? They happen. At least, Sara tastes like limes. It's a good thing the fucking limes taste strong and tangy enough to cover any traces of Michael.

He loses count of the shots, but while he's licking more salt off her collarbone, Michael is biting the lime from her mouth, and vice-versa, and vice-versa, and...

Sara chuckles around the bitter slice of lime and throws her head back against Lincoln's shoulder. He gently pushes her hair from her face and watches as Michael sucks on the lime, spits it on the table and dips again to kiss her.

She drowns into the kiss. She may not be drunk on the booze, but she's sure as hell high on the touch and the mood. Eyes closed, body lax and damp with night heat, she shamelessly leans against Lincoln as Michael is kissing her like there's no tomorrow. Right. It always takes some time for Michael, but when he starts to loosen, he loosens good and would bring anyone along with him, and she's _so_ gone.

"This is why Michael and you never met in college, isn't it?" Lincoln says when Michael breaks the kiss and pours them two more shots. "Not the same kind of friends, huh?"

"I had bad friends," she drawls. "Though fun ones."

"My point exactly."

He licks the side of her neck and pauses briefly when thinking that Michael has nuzzled her right there seconds ago. He doesn't have the chance to take a decision about that. Michael is reaching for him and pushing him into her.

Sara moans, a long and needy sound as she rolls her head to the side and offers the delicate column of her neck to Lincoln's whims.

Seconds ago, it was good, though not exactly clean, fun. It's not so much anymore when his teeth scrape across her skin and wrenches another moan out of her throat, when the only thing dampening her gasps is Michael kissing her with abandon.

"Okay, let's call it a night," Lincoln says in a thick voice, "I need to go, kids."

He knows that look in Michael's eyes, and he knows when a woman's about to lose it. Sara had crossed that line several minutes ago.

They've crossed a few other lines too, but nothing too bad, nothing irremediable, nothing they can't come back from if—

"You should stay." Michael's hand is tight around his wrist, squeezing him the way only people who don't realize they're not in control of themselves anymore can squeeze.

"You're drunk."

"I'm not drunk, and I think you should stay," Sara says as if thinking out loud.

"You're worse than drunk."

Michael rubs his thumb in small circles on the inside of Lincoln's forearm, and oh, shit, because his brother is drunk, but not _that_ drunk, after all — twelvish-year old signal that Michael didn't mind going there.

They used to do this. A bar, a few beers, a pretty girl, a twisted way to quench Michael's thirst to get closer to his big brother. And if during the night they were a bit too touchy-feely or sometimes kissed one another, so what? It wasn't like the pretty girl between them knew what they were to each other; when she wasn't the kind of pretty girl to be turned on by it.

The pretty girl between them today knows very much what they are to each other, and Lincoln doubts she's the kind of woman who would take it lightly. Though... Though... Does Michael want to get closer to his big brother by sharing his pretty wife, or to his pretty wife by sharing his big brother?

Lincoln's head hurts. Lincoln's erection aches. Lincoln's hands itch to grab and touch.

Sara turns around to face him and watches him with huge, gentle eyes.

"Shoot." She strokes the back of her hand against his cheek, the gesture so affectionate that there's no way he's doing this. "It's not what I meant to trigger with that damn tequila."

"I guess this is another reason why he rarely loosens..." Lincoln suggests.

"Hey!" Michael protests. " _He_ is right here."

Lincoln ignores him and kisses Sara, deep and real, not those sissy, accidental brushes of lips on lips that happened earlier when she'd offered him slices of lime. She tastes like the orange juice she drank tonight, and limes, and Michael.

The daybed is only a couple of steps behind them on the back deck. She ends up sprawled on it, her shoulders propped up on the cushions, her knees parted by Lincoln's large hands, her eyes trained on Michael.

"This means nothing, okay?" Lincoln says, his mouth running up her skin, chasing after the wet salt on the inside of her thighs. Michael is kneeling by him, tugging at Lincoln's tee-shirt and sliding his hand all over his back. "No big deal, just that fucking tequila messing with us. Nothing life-altering."

They can't fuck up what they have. Not now they have it all. And Lincoln Burrows is a master at fucking things up.

"Okay, Sara?"

Michael plasters himself against his flank, warm and urgent, and whispers into his ear, "I'll tell you what she likes." He's removed his own shirt, and Lincoln is almost positive that he's hard. Of course he's hard after what's been going on tonight.

Sara cups his chin between her hands and forces his face up. He complies with her demands. The dirty advice and suggestions Michael is pouring into his neck can wait a few more seconds.

"I don't have bad friends anymore, and I've stopped having the kind of fun I used to have back in the days a long time ago, Lincoln. Maybe it's not life-altering, but it's not the tequila, and it sure as hell means something."

END


End file.
